anywhere i go you go, my dear
by thestalwartheart
Summary: 'Contrary to belief, Phryne Fisher never enjoys the act of breaking a man's heart.' An exploration of S3.


_What have you done to him?_

 _Stood him up for another man._

Contrary to belief, Phryne Fisher never enjoys the act of breaking a man's heart. Her own heart might be carefree, but it is never callous. She can count on one hand the number of times she's wished she had the will to wish she could reciprocate a lover's feelings, but she can count them all the same. She's hardly so arrogant to believe that she stands all alone in the world, a spectre of frivolity above the power of love.

So if the flippancy of her reply to Mac holds no water, it's because she's tired of the assumptions Jack Robinson makes about her. Granted, it's not entirely his fault if the public image of her character is so convincing. She's built it that way. And yet, for a Detective that spends so many nights seeing more of her than any of the others do, he seems remarkably obtuse.

Eventually, he calls round to her house, toasting to miracles and looking deeply confused. She feels unanchored, and in no mood to entertain her father. As the night wears on, her body feels increasingly insubstantial. She owes Jack no explanation, but as always, she wants to give him one. Later, after her father retires and Jack looks nervously at the nerve tonic on the table, he is hers alone.

He clears his throat. "I said some unfair things to you the other night. You were under no obligation to me. Two failed attempts at supper and a new tie hardly constitute a marriage, after all."

"I'm aware of that."

"I'm sure you are."

Her heart drops into her stomach and she feels as if her body holds no weight at all.

"I am many things, Jack. But I do not consider myself cruel or heartless."

He sighs, resigned. "Neither do I, Miss Fisher. Not for a moment."

* * *

She doesn't believe in regrets, so Captain Compton isn't one.

But if she did, she might be tempted to file their reminiscence there, right next to the memory titled 'Hurting Jack Robinson.'

* * *

In the end, it's a disappointingly predictable twist that pushes her over the edge and into her feelings; the presence of another woman. The shared nights in her parlour have become so much a part of who they are. The idea that there is somewhere else he goes for food, wine and company irks her in a way she's repulsed at. She's always known Jack had his mysteries, but to not know something so fundamental as his favourite restaurant, his weekly place of solace, seems a deliberate omission on his part. And a fundamental oversight in their friendship.

"I've been selfish, Jack."

His face doesn't change, but his eyes sparkle with mirth. "Surely that's not a crime, Miss Fisher. The whole world revolves around you, after all."

"Oh come on, be serious."

"Perhaps I'm finished being a serious man." He pours her a glass of wine and changes the record from Italian opera to a quiet jazz number. "It's been a while since 1918, after all. Maybe it's time I started to embrace my more frivolous side. Care for a dance, Miss Fisher?"

She ignores his hand. "Why did you never mention Strano's?"

"Why are you so interested?"

She won't dignify that with an answer. He must know. The embarrassment of jealousy is surely a feeling he can empathise with. The silence stretches until Jack gives up, sighing and sinking into her chaise. "It was somewhere I could go where no one would think to find me."

"That's it?"

"Well, that and the lasagne was exceptional."

She imagines the concealed multitude of reasons for which he must have frequented Strano's. The need to be a stranger, the comfort of food, and above all the quiet utterance of his name, _Gianni_ , from the lips of a strong and beautiful woman. But Phryne is a private detective. Discretion is her trade. And none of those things seem as important right now as the act of him turning up in her parlour with a bottle of wine and a warm, carefree spirit. Confessions can wait.

"Well then, I believe you offered me a dance, Inspector."

* * *

Their glasses of whisky have steadily been growing beyond finger measures for a couple of hours now. She has shed her shoes and Jack's jacket is draped haphazardly across the arm of her chaise. He's in her favourite state, where his usual contained smirk has become more relaxed, loosening the corners of his mouth into a sincere joviality, so rarely seen. His hair has broken loose from its pomade prison and she wonders, privately, what she has done to deserve the right to see this side of Jack Robinson.

"It strikes me that I'm on your couch, Miss Fisher."

"Well, with observation skills like that, it's no wonder you're a Detective."

With a look that reminds her of a stolen pocket watch and an illicit bottle of champagne, he says, "So you've entirely forgotten the urge to psychoanalyse me, then?"

There is a poignant pause where Phryne considers the possible trajectories of the night. She thinks, for once, it's more likely than not to end in her boudoir. He has never been afraid of holding eye contact with her, but this intensity is new. This side of Jack Robinson is brave. She's always imagined he would be courageous once he overcame his boundaries.

She is surprised at her own lack of courage in the face of it.

"Maybe some other night, Jack. When we haven't indulged so much."

He lets out a huff of a laugh. "I'll be around, Miss Fisher."

* * *

She'd always imagined her mother, as stalwart as she is, as a bit of a fool. A waltz, of all dances to lose reason over!

As Jack's hand rests just too close to her right breast, his face is completely nonchalant. His fingertips burn through her silk dress. The smell of his cologne, subtle after a day of wear, enthrals her. She's always thought herself the one to lead in their slow and steady dance, but this newfound confidence of his has put her on the back foot.

"So how do I compare with those Presidents and princes, Miss Fisher?"

"Admirably, Jack."

Never one to shun the effects of an attractive man on her body, she revels in her weightlessness and breathlessness while he changes the record.

They dance again.

* * *

' _Well, it's so much better when he does it with his teeth._ '

She doesn't do jealousy. Except when she does, apparently. It's brand new information for her and she doesn't enjoy the epiphany.

Angela Lombard is recently divorced and a man like Jack, so enamoured with American adventure novels, might appreciate a woman with an accent like that. He's certainly been convinced of the value of modern women. Perhaps he might prefer someone with a little less _ballast_. She doesn't enjoy that epiphany either.

Later, he's in the familiar confines of her parlour. They're waltzing, in theory, balancing too much alcohol with too much desire. Phryne does not feel brave enough to be holding both his heart and his expectations in her hands.

"Miss Lombard seemed convinced you and I were an item," he says.

Phryne's voice is just a hair too high when she answers, "Did she? Must have been that delightful picture of us in the society pages."

"Hmm. Nothing to do with the particular virtues of my teeth, by any chance?"

She turns from him swiftly, pouring another too-large glass of whisky. "Where on earth did you hear about that?"

"I have my sources."

"Jack-"

"And you clearly have yours. I can assure you, they're not far off the mark. My mouth has many fine qualities beyond quoting Shakespeare."

His fingers touch hers as she hands him his drink. She laughs with free abandon. "I'll hold you to proving that one day, Inspector."

* * *

 _There's a whole world out there, Jack. He's the least of your worries._

She leaves him in a trail of dust and tries not to feel the heartbreak in it. Her parting quip sits like a stone in the bottom of her stomach, a last feeble attempt to retreat into coy flirtation. It feels like running away.

She has always been rather good at that.

There will be other men, she knows. She thinks Jack knows too. In India, in Greece, in London, perhaps. She will revel in their free passion, their unreserved lust, and she knows that none of it will satisfy her in the way it used to.

" _How_ long did you say we'll be in this bloody death trap?" Her father's voice grates and she feels a furious anger building up through the marrow of her bones.

"Not a minute longer than necessary, _Baron_. Now stay quiet. I need to concentrate."

* * *

In London, her mother hands her a stack of letters.

"The mailman has rarely been so busy, Phryne. You must have made quite the impression in Melbourne."

"I should hope so. Their society pages must be looking _awfully_ drab."

She takes them to her boudoir with a whisky that smells of peat and reminds her of a deep, Antipodean tenor.

He has written her four times. Her hand sweeps over his narrow cursive. _The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher._ She feels delighted, high on his adoration and giddy with possibility. She'd always appreciated the value of a good love letter. God knows she's received her share of them, and yet Jack's seem a rare and fragile thing to hold. The affection of such a closely guarded man is a wonder to observe.

He writes more formally than he speaks. It's not a surprise, although it is jarring. He makes up for it with well-chosen and surprisingly modern lines of verse.

 _(anywhere  
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing, my darling)_

But her favourite is a thin slip of paper containing a photo of them both at Dot and Hugh's wedding, a single romantic overture as its caption.

 _Come home safe, Phryne, and solve a case with me._

He has come after her.

* * *

She sits languidly under the burning, dry heat of the Tuscan sun, a glass of wine in hand and the burden of her parents' troubles far behind her.

"Mi scusi, Signorina. Today is too beautiful to be drinking alone. May I join you?"

"Si, certainly." She holds out her hand to receive a warm kiss, "Phryne Fisher."

"Gianni. Gianni Ciampi. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Her smile freezes in place for a second, the change imperceptible to the smiling man across from her, but she feels aflame. _Gianni_. It rings in her ears.

She goes to bed with him as the sun is setting, their bodies bathed in gold. Her mouth is dry from a bottle of red wine and he smells of grapes and garlic. He is attentive and passionate, although she notices he thinks more confidently of his capability than he should. Still, it has been too long since she took a lover and her body responds with vigour. She will remember this feeling for decades to come, as her hair turns grey and her limbs leaden. The freedom is exhilarating.

And if his name sticks in her throat, well, she tries her best to let her mind wash over it. Names aren't necessary for one amorous night.

* * *

On a bridge in Paris, she feels nothing but sadness. Without the constant drinking and dancing, the war is in everything and the ghost of René lurks around too many corners. A city that was once a euphoric escape now seems claustrophobic.

Her heart is not here; it's in Melbourne and it's about time she followed it home.

* * *

HELLO JACK (STOP) 11 AM APRIL 20 (STOP) MEET ME AT AIRFIELD WITH ROMANTIC OVERTURE (STOP) PF

* * *

From the air she spies a group waiting for her. Despite the chill in her bones from hours of flying, it warms her heart. This is the family she can no longer stand to abandon.

When she lands she cannot see a tilted fedora and her reaction to that is visceral; a heart clawing its way through her throat. She had been so sure after those letters. Perhaps she was gone too long. A year was far longer than she had been intending on travelling. It's not inconceivable that he found someone new.

After the raucous greetings, Mr Butler approaches. "The Inspector bid me deliver this."

"Did he now? Has he finally succeeded in stealing you from my employ?"

"As admirably as he tried, I'm afraid not. But he seemed terribly concerned it be handled discreetly and reach you right here at the airfield."

She smiles, bemused and hopeful.

 _Come after me, Phryne Fisher. - JR_

* * *

She stands, poised at the door of a tidy bungalow in Richmond and wonders at the small world hidden behind it. She is feeling nervous but bold. For all the world has given her recently, the most valuable of all is the certainty that she cannot be without Jack Robinson. It's a stunning revelation to her, that she feels this strong a pull to a man. But she is so sick of psychoanalysing herself. Melbourne is home, a place where she can make her childhood dreams come alive, where she has a family who make her feel worthy, where she can be of real use to people and enjoy herself doing it. Her heart seeks adventure, but it seeks this city more. And who is she to think she can deny her own heart the pleasures of love?

When he answers her knock he looks the same as ever; buttoned-up, polished and pomaded. His coolness is betrayed only by a fire behind his eyes and the bobbing of his Adam's apple.

"Welcome home. Care for a drink?"

Right in the doorway, she kisses him deeply. She has never been good with serious declarations but she hopes the certainty of her mouth on his is enough for him to understand. When he breaks away, his eyes are wild and his breathing heavy.

"I came home, Jack. Do you have a case for me?"

He smiles a rare, full smile. "Isn't there always a case, Miss Fisher? There's quite the pile of unsolved crimes stacking up without my glamorous partner to accompany me down the dark alleyways of Melbourne."

"You know, I think I might skip that drink for now then, Inspector. I suddenly find myself with an itch to work on a particular mystery I've been meaning to investigate for a very, _very_ long time." She runs her hand from his lapels up to his cheek, stroking her thumb gently over his protruding cheekbone.

"A brave endeavour, indeed. Such a case might take a while."

"I hope it does, Jack. I really do."


End file.
